


On Humans and Nightmares

by Halfblood_Fiend



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Denial of Feelings, Fluff, I got carried away with the flashback so sue me, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Siblings, Tarsus IV, and just a DASH of angst, can you believe this was just an excuse to make them cuddle at first?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halfblood_Fiend/pseuds/Halfblood_Fiend
Summary: Taking place shortly after the episode, The Conscience of the King, Kirk grapples with his dredged up trauma and Mr. Spock offers a solution taken from his own past personal experience with his adopted sister.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock
Comments: 7
Kudos: 88





	On Humans and Nightmares

Jim Kirk sat at the desk in his dimly lit quarters and tried to focus on the words swimming in his vision as best as he could. No matter how stubbornly he stared, the words refused to stay put, to stay sharp. In fact, they seemed rather hellbent in proving this to be an exercise in futility. The reports on the PADDs blurred together in his mind until he couldn’t remember which he had read and approved and which he hadn’t. His itchy eyes and heavy lids were all but begging him to go to sleep. _Just get some damn **sleep,** you miserable fool!_

Funny. His inner voice of reason sounded an awful lot like Bones. That thought distracted and amused him for a moment and Jim tried to stretch out his neck and shift in his chair to keep himself awake. Because no matter how badly his body or that inner voice of Bones wanted him to sleep, he couldn’t listen to either.

Or _wouldn’t_ listen to it, as was more the case.

For three days now, nightmares had plagued him. It was silly and childish, and very much _not_ befitting of a captain, to be so afraid of the dark—of _sleeping_ —but Jim thought that if he had to relive Tarsus IV again _one more time_ it might just be the death of him.

Maybe he should have gone straight to Bones for help after the first. If he went right now, maybe he could cajole his friend into giving him some sleep-inducing hypo-spray. Jim considered it…and then dismissed it. The risk of Bones pouring him a glass of whiskey and sitting Jim down to make him “talk it out” was just too great. That was the last thing Jim wanted to do, no matter how good a medically induced death-like sleep sounded. No, he couldn’t risk Bones deciding to do his job this time around. Jim already knew, definitively, whiskey or not, that he did _not_ want to talk about this. What else was there to say about Tarsus that hadn’t already been said before?

Kodos had murdered thousands of people, and then Jim just let him get away with it. Twice. He hadn’t listened to his old friend or his gut and then the murderer was allowed to just…die. All those souls who could never rest easy… Jim had let them all down. Four thousand souls sitting heavy on his shoulders. Like ghosts, they haunted him, plagued him with nightmares as penance for not extracting their justice in their name.

There wasn’t enough whiskey in the galaxy to numb that, let alone in Bones’ stash.

So his perfect and flawless plan to avoid the nightmares? Avoid sleeping.

Jim massaged his eyes with his fingers until black dots popped in his vision. He sat back, yawning, and then the door chime rang. For a heartbeat, he stared at the bulkhead and considered pretending to be asleep, until a nasty thought occurred to him:

Jim had already shirked his duty as a survivor, it would be shameful to avoid his responsibility as a Captain too.

He set his mouth. “Enter,” he sighed.

The door slid open, revealing his first officer in the hallway. Mr. Spock glided inside, his eyes glued to his own PADD. He was already speaking before he had made it fully through the threshold.

“Captain, there seems to be minute inconsistencies in the computer’s analysis of the geothermal data we collected on Al’her V. I wonder if—”

The Vulcan glanced up at Jim for the first time and stopped dead. The look in his eyes made Jim wonder what an awful sight he was, to give his first officer such pause. He tried to give Spock a smile, hoped it wasn’t more of a grimace. “You wonder if?” he prompted.

“Sir…” Spock cocked his head to the side. Jim had hardly known Spock to hesitate when he had something to say, and something in the timbre of the other man’s single syllable made him curious. Jim felt it teetered on the edge of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He stared at Spock’s mouth for a moment, fascinated by it. Waiting.

No, he was thinking too much into it. He was delirious. Jim rubbed his face again and said a quick prayer to anyone listening that his exhaustion wouldn’t give way to impropriety.

At least, not today.

“Captain,” Spock said seriously, appearing to make up his mind, “are you well?”

_To tell the truth or to tell a lie? To tell or to lie?_ There were merits and downsides to both, and Jim attempted to weigh them all quickly in his sluggish mind.

“No, Spock, I…” Jim began… and then lost his nerve. “I’m just tired is all.”

“Tired,” Spock echoed. His dark eyes flicked to the bright green letters of the chronometer beside Jim’s bed and then to the neatly tucked in sheets. Been that way for days. “If you have not slept since our last full shift on the bridge, I calculate that you will not have slept for nearly thirty-six hours.”

“Oh?” It was thirty-eight, actually. If one counted the two hours _before_ their shift that Jim’s last nightmare had stolen from him. But who was counting?

“That is unsafe for a human, and more so for a starship captain. You should consider seeing to your needs for the greater benefit.”

Jim could only find it in himself to nod. He knew that already. He had given the same sort of lecture to himself, but the consistency of the nightmares made it difficult. Even if he _did_ fall asleep, the snatches of rest he got were fitful at best. So, what did Spock know about it? Jim didn’t have the patience right now to listen to this.

His displeasure may have shown on his face, for Spock’s brows knit. He approached Jim’s desk and sat gracefully on the other side of it, laying his PADD aside. When the man spoke again, his voice was gentler, and made Jim’s heart ache in his chest.

“It is something else, isn’t it? Something, perhaps, to do with the travelling theatre troupe? I do realize how the loss of Govenor Kodos must have affected you.”

“How could you _possibly_ realize that?” Jim spat before he could stop himself.

Spock may have appeared unmoved by the venom in Jim’s voice, but he felt immediately guilty anyway. Spock didn’t have anything to do with it, he didn’t deserve to be snapped at. He was even, quite unexpectedly, trying to help Jim.

His heart shriveled up in his chest. He backtracked. “I’m sorry, Spock. I… yes. Kodos or Karidian or _whomever he was…_ his end was _…dissatisfying_ to say the least. I’ve been unsettled ever since.”

“You are dissatisfied with his death?”

“I am _dissatisfied_ with the lack of _justice_ in it.” Jim considered saying more. He considered telling his first officer that it was unfair and frustrating and made him feel like the useless child once again, watching the horror unfold from behind the stands. Powerless once more. But these were all feelings, just raw emotions and Spock would never, either by his nature or by his own desire, understand any of those.

And Jim refused to unburden himself by burdening this Vulcan with his humanity.

Besides, Jim was sure that _Spock_ _was_ sure there was more to it anyway. It was hard to put anything past him. The other man’s interlaced fingers pressed to his lips; Spock’s lovely, deep-set eyes regarded him.

“One would assume you wouldn’t lose sleep over mere dissatisfaction. “

“They’re just nightmares, Spock,” Jim said quickly, realizing that he had to act fast if he wanted to wriggle out of the same impromptu therapy he had wanted to avoid in Bones. “Old faces. Old nightmares. Nothing to be very worried about, but still. I don’t sleep well.”

“Ah.” Spock nodded, more to himself it seemed. “And you hoped that staying alert for as long as possible would—”

“Make me too tired to dream, yes,” Jim finished for him. “That was the idea, anyway. I wish there was a guarantee it would work…”

Spock was quiet a few moments, his brows knit a little while he thought. Jim found himself sleepily taking advantage of the vulcan’s downturned gaze. He hadn’t been this close to Spock for some time, trying to give him the distance he deserved, even though Jim wanted very badly to be near him. Constantly, inexplicably. Vulcans, he knew, didn’t appreciate that. But maybe if he drank in Spock’s face now, Jim could replace his nightmares with far pleasanter dreams. Filled with long steepled fingers and black bangs and dark eyes, curving pointed ears and high cheekbones—Spock suddenly looked up, brightly, for a Vulcan, and took Jim aback. “If I may…Jim, offer something of a solution?”

His name! Jim didn’t think Spock had ever used _his name_ before. He was surprised that he had used ‘Jim’ and not ‘James.’ It was more proper, more expected. Overwhelmingly curious, Jim indicated that Spock continue.

“It has been my experience that humans, as social creatures, garner direct benefits from social interactions. I…knew of another human who often had nightmares in the first several years that I knew her. These dreams went away with time and mental discipline, but a temporary solution could be found once she was no longer alone in a room. It is…an imperfect solution, and perhaps it would make you uncomfortable, but as an integral member of this crew with so many lives at risk, I hope you give it proper consideration, Jim. So, it is by this logic that offer my company in your room tonight so that you may get some clearly much needed rest.”

Jim stared. He couldn’t believe his ears. Spock was offering to—what? —stay the night with him? Keep him company? That couldn’t be right. That seemed...so out of character. Not that Jim claimed to know his first officer very well beyond a spotless service record. Did he make a habit of keeping nightmare-having women company in their quarters? That wasn’t something that was on his file.

_There is nothing else for it but to ask_ , Jim supposed.

“And…just _what_ are you intending to propose? I am…afraid it’s unclear. Forgive me.”

Spock nodded as though there was nothing amiss and Jim wasn’t sitting across from him having an audible heart attack while being prodded with jealousy. “Not surprising given your sleepless state. I am offering my presence for whatever comfort you might take from it. It is my estimation that I may just as easily analyze reports in your quarters as in mine. Only here, I hypothesize I would aid in putting your mind to rest.”

Ah. So…just offering to stay over to be another body in the room. Jim tried to ignore the way his heart shrunk in disappointment.

He didn’t know what his imagination had been on about. That, all-of-a-sudden, Spock would crawl right into his bed was ludicrous.

And _yet_.

Rubbing his face again, banishing impure thoughts mingled with disappointment, Jim agreed. “It’s worth a shot. Better than what I’m doing, anyway, if I’m being honest. Though I will request that you don’t tell Bones. About the nightmares, I mean. He’d have my head if he knew I wasn’t reporting sleeping problems again.”

“It is my experience that our dear doctor has ‘had men’s heads’ for less, but I will comply.”

Jim smiled. “Bones is just a staunch believer in tough love, that’s all. I…appreciate what you’re doing, Spock. You will…wake me if—”

“I will keep an eye out, Captain, and wake you if anything seems amiss.”

Jim hadn’t missed the way Spock had switched back to his formal name-calling. He wasn’t upset about it. _He wasn’t._

With a final lingering look, Jim rose and drowsily made his way to his bed. His heaviness hit him all at once. He had really managed to stay up for a long while, hadn’t he? He hadn’t pulled such a stunt since all-nighters in his academy days. But it wasn’t just his finals he was risking anymore. Spock was right about becoming a danger to his ship, of course. Jim was putting all their lives at risk with his fear.

He had half a mind to crawl into bed in his clothes, both for ease and to protect Spock’s eyes, but Jim knew he could never get comfortable like that. So he stripped down to his briefs and dove into bed as quickly as he could manage. He blushed, but made _sure_ not to glance back at Spock, presumably still sitting at the desk.

_Don’t think about him watching you undress_.

Closing his eyes, Governor Kodos’ face swam into Jim’s vision right on time, but it didn’t bring with it the pangs of anger or regret. This time, the half-shadowed memory hardly bothered Jim at all.

This time, Jim didn’t have to face his demon alone.

* * *

Spock resumed his previous manual calculations and noted that Jim was quiet for several hours. It was just as well.

For a moment after he made his offer, Spock experienced a fleeting pang of regret, a sudden nagging at the back of his consciousness that he was being _far_ too forward with the Captain.

Obvious, to put it bluntly. He was being obvious.

Whatever base attraction he had to the captain had to be controlled and ignored. He mustn’t let him know. Not because the Captain would be cruel or make an ordeal out of it—he wouldn’t, Spock was certain—but because Spock would never be able to live with the soft pity he could vividly imagine in Jim’s eyes if he learned of Spock’s infatuation.

Tonight, he had nearly given himself away.

While logical for a human to require the comfort of another person in the room with them to sleep, Spock had promptly assessed that his offer was being taken in a more physical direction than he had originally intended. Jim’s blank and uncertain surprise had all but confirmed it.

Spock caught and corrected his behavior, as he so often did around Jim, but decided not rescind his solution.

The offer, after all, had been genuine, and from genuine experience.

* * *

Since her arrival in their home, Michael Burnham had been plagued with nightmares.

At first, her shouts in the dead of night from down the hall were irksome to him, disturbing Spock either during his late meditation or his own slumber on numerous occasions. When it became apparent they would be a regular occurrence, Spock found himself uniquely concerned. Not only for himself, and how being woken through the night might affect his days in the Learning Center, but also for the affect it had on his mother, who was most often the one who would go to Michael and console her. He never spared much thought for the wellbeing of the new intruder, Michael Burnham until some time later.

After Michael had lived with them for a few months and his concern now included her, he got up the nerve to ask about her nightmares. It was a particularly cool afternoon, late in the year, and they worked together on assignments in a sunny spot on their kitchen table.

“Why do you have nightmares every night?”

Michael turned furtive in her seat across from him. She pulled the textbook they were sharing nearer to her PADD and pretended to be engrossed in it.

“What are they of?”

Shrugging, she mumbled, “I dunno. Just...bad dreams, I guess.”

Spock could tell she was lying but could also tell that pressing the issue outright would yield him no new results. He judged a new tack of lending helpfulness would fare better. Humans, generally _most_ people, responded well to being helped by their peers.

“When I have bad dreams, father cautions me to meditate on them. Being afraid of them gives them power. He says it’s better to face it outright—”

“I guarantee you that we don’t have the same bad dreams, Spock.” Her voice was cold and hard, and her eyes did not move over the text in any attempt to appear she was reading anymore. “Can’t you just drop it?”

“I want to help you,” Spock insisted, leaning forward in his chair. “If you don’t do well in the Learning Center—”

“I’m doing _fine!”_

“No, you’re not. Your productivity is declining by 2.3 percent a week and your response times are most likely inhibited by—”

Michael clapped her hands to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, crying, “Just _STOP IT! Can’t you see I don’t want to talk about it? Just STOP ASKING!”_

This was _not_ going as well as he planned. “I only want to help—”

“My parents were murdered by Klingons right in front of me! I have to hear it every night! You can’t help that! NO one can!”

Spock's mouth snapped closed and he stared across at her. For a long time, he couldn't think of a single thing to say. What _could_ be said?

And before he realized an apology should be tumbling from his lips, Michael had scooped up all her study materials and rushed from the table, tears streaming behind her.

Sybok slouched into the room just as Michael pushed past him. He looked up at Spock with bleary but accusing eyes. “What did you do now?”

“Nothing!”

“They might not have as much control over their emotions as our kind, but even humans don’t cry for ‘nothing’.”

“I wasn’t doing anything. I was trying to help!”

His older brother’s lean face was impassive, but Spock swore he saw the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Of course,” Sybok scoffed. “You did a great job.”

Scowling, Spock shoved away from the table and collected his own things.

_Don’t be mad. I don’t feel anger._ The way his human eyes pricked in the corners were in direct contradiction to his thoughts.

Spock _was_ trying to help. And what did Sybok know about that? All he did was stay shut up in his room, sometimes for days on end, until Amanda lured him out with food. Spock didn’t think _he_ had ever thought about helping Michael.

“Where are you going now?”

Spock ignored him. He kept his head low, intent on pushing past Sybok if he tried to stop him. But he met no resistance.

“How about you try not to make it worse this time,” Sybok called after Spock as he reached the stairwell.

Without glancing back, Spock took them two at a time.

He would speak with Michael again. He would apologize. _He would_ —

But he never did get to that day, or any day after. The next time he saw Michael, she acted as though nothing had transpired at all. Spock had been forced to let it go.

Until one night, when both Sarek and Amanda were out for the evening at a dignitary’s gala.

Spock had nearly fallen asleep when a scream—Michael’s scream—echoed through the house.

Turning over, Spock pressed his pillow around his head and attempted to go back to sleep. Sybok was in charge. He would handle it in his parents’ absence. Likely in the same indifferent way he had handled “dinner”, but he would handle it all the same. Michael’s wellbeing wasn’t Spock’s problem tonight. Their parents had said…

And then a small, timid knock on his door roused him from the edges of a hazy dream.

Rubbing his eyes, swallowing his annoyance, Spock threw himself out of bed and stomped across the floor. He yanked on the handle, and there Michael stood, with tears in her eyes. Sneaking a glance down the hall, Spock saw Sybok’s door firmly closed and Michael’s thrown wide open.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, struggling to keep irritation out of his voice. “Are you hurt? Do you require a healer?”

Michael shook her head, but still the tears ran silently down her cheeks. “M-may I enter?”

Without a valid reason not to, Spock stood aside for her. She wiped her nose and tried to gather herself in the dark room as he waited. He focused on keeping perfectly still to keep his foot from tapping. It helped to busy himself counting the seconds of lost sleep in his head and attempting to calculate the impact they would have on his marks at the Learning Center the next morning. In the end, it was impossible to be accurate because his data was incomplete without a single important variable: how long this interruption would take.

“I can hear them, Spock,” Michael said finally. She was quiet and her voice sounded raw on the edges from crying. “Have you ever heard a Klingon growl before? My dad, he shouted at them, but he couldn’t stop—my mom—” Whatever else she might have said choked off in a sob.

Spock’s eyes grew wide and his body became tense. He was _not_ equipped to deal with… _this._

Suddenly, Spock understood. Sarek had informed him and his brother before she arrived of the fate of Michael Burnham’s real parents and warned them against asking Michael about it.

“Humans don’t often wish to discuss such things,” his father had said. “They find these emotions difficult to process and attempt to avoid them. You should respect that desire until she is ready.”

Sybok yawned in a way that felt very purposeful, but Spock had diverted Sarek’s reprimand by asking, “How long should we expect that to take?”

He pressed his mouth in a line as he stared at his eldest son for a moment before answering his youngest, “It is impossible to approximate. Perhaps she will never choose to speak of it, but we must maintain that it is _her_ choice to do so.”

How he wished he had made the connection between this and Michael’s nightmares. It seemed so obvious now.

To his surprise (or maybe relief) she didn’t say any more, though neither did her tears subside. Spock wondered if he should attempt to comfort her somehow, but found he was ill-equipped to do that either. Spock couldn’t even raise his arms to offer a hug. He just stood there motionless, mouth glued shut, tongue like lead.

Helpless. Useless.

Michael finally spoke. “Would.. would it be okay if I slept in here with you? I could get my blanket and stay on the floor? Usually Amanda comes and stays with me until I go back to sleep, but… but…”

_But his mother wasn’t here_ , he finished for her.

Spock licked his lips and tried to speak, but still nothing would come. The request didn’t seem outlandish, through his mind pricked with a strange desire to do more. But what, he didn’t know, so he nodded.

As Michael dashed away to grab her things, Spock tried to reconcile what it must have been like to relieve the loss of your family over and over again in your dreams. Being tortured by the other children was one thing. The vague monstrous shapes of his imagination that haunted his own nightmares was one thing. But a memory that wouldn’t leave you? He tried to imagine his mother screaming, his home burning, his father fighting the hulking shapes of Klingon warriors wielding fierce glinting bat’leths, and Spock _understood_. His heart ached terribly, and he felt his own hot tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.

_Inappropriate, as Vulcans do not cry._ Shaking his head, Spock bid the imaginary specters to leave him alone, assuring himself that the only danger threatening his mother and father tonight was an overabundance of champagne.

By the time she had returned clutching her duvet and pillow, he’d regained control of himself.

Michael closed the door behind her and followed him back towards his bed. She stopped short and tossed her pillow on the ground by the thick rug protruding from under the bed’s feet.

Pausing in pulling away his covers, Spock made a quick and logical decision. “That is unnecessary,” he said, finding his voice at last. Maybe he couldn’t describe his empathy to her, or fully realize how awful it must have been to relive your parents’ final moments, as he still had his. Maybe he couldn’t quite give the Terran the exact comfort she might have needed, but Spock was convinced he could still _do_ something. “Your dreams have already deprived you of hours of restful sleep tonight. I see no reason to spend the rest of your time in discomfort when my bed is plenty big enough for the both of us.”

Michael, wide-eyed and disbelieving, looked from her pillow on the floor to Spock’s large bed. “Are…are you sure?”

Admittedly, he swam in it most nights. “Yes. It’s logical.”

She blinked at him a moment more before scooping the pillow up and climbing up onto the bed, dragging her own duvet behind her. She wriggled to the far side as Spock clambered in after her.

“Good night, Spock,” Michael whispered as he gathered his own blanket around himself.

He hoped it would prove to be now. “Good night, Michael.”

They both quickly fell back asleep and did not wake the rest of the night.

* * *

It was the first of many such encounters in their youth, and eventually, she stopped asking permission at all. It came to be that whenever Spock heard his door open, rousing him from sleep, he rolled over to the side to make room for his sister.

There was a marked difference, she informed him objectively, in the consistency of her nightmares when she had his presence beside her.

Spock was satisfied he could similarly aid his captain, now.

Just as he decided to settle in for a meditation, Jim’s rest took a turn for the worse. He began to pant and to moan piteously as he shifted in his bed. Then he thrashed, a twist of limbs and blanket. The only intelligible words that could be discerned by Spock’s ears was “No.” The single syllable left his lips in a string and ended in a final, barely audible, “Not them.”

Spock crossed to Jim and deliberated a moment. The Human’s handsome face was scrunched as though he were in pain, lovely mouth open and gasping for breath. Spock reached a hand towards Jim’s forehead, but paused. No, that seemed like a severe breach in manners. Many humanoids did not appreciate their minds being invaded without permission. He didn’t know the Captain quite well enough for that.

_Yet._

Spock pressed the thought from his mind with vague irritation and considered alternatives when Jim suddenly rolled over away from him towards the wall. The new position exposed an ample amount of space on the mattress, ample enough to—

With hindsight, Spock realized he could have—and perhaps _should_ have—wakened Jim and let events unfold from there. But in the moment, with Michael’s ordeal still on his mind, and wanting Jim to have a full night’s peace, Spock did what he would continue to argue was “perfectly logical” for days later. Even when he knew, deep down and with burning shame, that it very much was _not_.

He dispensed himself of his polished black boots and carefully tested his weight on the edge of the mattress. Spock watched Jim closely, searching for any indication he was waking. All he saw was Jim’s broad back heaving, his head twitching minutely on his pillow. It appeared to be safe enough. He was not disturbed.

Spock climbed into bed behind the fitful captain and when that alone did not appear to ease Jim’s heartrate, he snaked his arms around the other man’s waist. Michael had found this comforting in their youth, he reasoned, and most, if not _all,_ Humans gained distinct benefit from touching others. He would ask forgiveness later, he decided, closing his eyes. He listened to the erratic patter of Jim’s heart and labored breathing, counting the beats and noting their rhythm.

Jim’s relief with the pressure of his arm was very nearly instantaneous. Tense muscles in his back and neck relaxed, a long sigh parted his lips, and, slowly, minute by minute, the frantic heartbeat settled. As Jim relaxed into a deep sleep, he pressed himself into Spock’s chest and the Vulcan noted that he fit snuggly. Almost as though it was where he belonged.

Spock roughly shoved the thought from his mind before it could have the chance to plant itself and grow.

This is logical, Spock thought firmly, settling his head onto the Captain’s second pillow. This is necessary to protect the rest of the crew.

His own fluttering heart was the only thing brave enough to call him a liar.

**Author's Note:**

> tfw this was supposed to be a Spirk thing but then you had the most fun writing siblings fighting. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯   
> What can ya do?


End file.
